


Passage

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cousin Incest, M/M, Uncle/Nephew Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 11:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10592820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Fingon undergoes Fëanor’s scrutiny for his affair with Maedhros.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Findekáno walks at a deliberately measured place, holding himself tall, trying to look braver than he feels. The servants he passes scurry out of his way—he said he could make this journey alone. He answers the summons, slips into the study, is sure to shut the door firmly behind him, and comes to stand in the middle of the rug. The room is lit only by candles and the fire; the darkness makes this all the more ominous. In a heavy armchair by the hearth, Fëanáro sits with his glass of wine. 

He doesn’t look up at Findekáno’s entrance, merely swirls his cup and takes his sweet time. It does nothing to lessen Findekáno’s nerves. Findekáno says nothing either. He has an inkling of why he’s here, but he doesn’t want to give voice to it—there’s still a chance he’s wrong.

Eventually, Fëanáro sits down his glass on the coffee table and rises from his chair. Tall and darkly handsome, he strolls towards Findekáno, posture impossibly imposing. The fire licks him in orange-yellow highlights and stretches his shadow far across the floor. He’s a sight to behold, though Findekáno’s always _tried_ not to be in awe of him. Fëanáro is a great man, but far from flawless.

He stops only an arm’s length away and fills the room with his presence. His piercing eyes begin to drift down Findekáno’s form, strangely slow and precise, tracing every line and curve. Findekáno feels as though he may as well be naked, Fëanáro examines him so thoroughly. 

When that heated gaze finally returns to Findekáno’s eyes, Fëanáro drawls, “You must know why you are here.”

His voice is deep, smooth and velvety, but wildly commanding; Findekáno feels both seduced and obliged to obey. He doesn’t betray his thoughts but carefully answers, “I would not presume to guess.”

In a heartbeat, Fëanáro’s stepped closer, and his hand darts out to catch Findekáno’s chin, one finger hooking beneath it, tilting it up—Findekáno’s breath hitches, body tensing. Fëanáro isn’t quite as tall as Maitimo, but he still stands higher than Findekáno, broader, _stronger_ , and his might is palpable. His attractive features are captivating, but Findekáno glances away lest Fëanáro catch the truth in his eyes. Fëanáro muses quietly, “I wonder what he sees in you.”

There’s only one person he could mean. Findekáno’s heart is beating faster for it, rushing with fear that they’ve been caught. He keeps his gaze averted but doesn’t pull away. He knew it would come to this eventually.

Fëanáro moves again, and before Findekáno can react, Fëanáro is abruptly against his mouth.

A startled noise snakes out of his throat, but his lips have no room to open for it, crushed so tightly against his uncle’s; Fëanáro holds him in by a ruthless grip on his jaw. The kiss is bruising, equally as forceful as the ones he and Maitimo share after a hard day of training or a hunt, when the passion runs too high to be controlled. Fëanáro lingers, mouth hot and too hard to be soft, during which Findekáno does nothing but freeze, neither pulling back nor participating. He just stands rigidly in place, mind both racing and erupting into nothing. 

When Fëanáro finally breaks the kiss, he licks his bow lips and muses, “Clearly, it is not because you are a good kisser.”

Findekáno’s cheeks heat. He averts his eyes again, and though he means to clench his teeth together and be quiet, he finds himself muttering, “With all do respect, uncle, I am very talented when I choose to engage.”

“And you do not do so when your elder all but commands it,” Fëanáro dryly retorts. 

Findekáno winces. He doesn’t understand what Fëanáro’s playing at. Only a few years ago, this would be too uncomfortable to bear. But proximity to Maitimo and the Fëanorian’s strangely tight knit family has steeled him to their oddities. He still releases a breath of relief when Fëanáro lets go of his chin. 

The tension returns when Fëanáro growls, “Did you really think I did not know?” Findekáno examines his boots, but he doesn’t need to look to know that Fëanáro is seething. “I know _everything_ that my sons do. I only wish your father had the same measure of control over his offspring.”

Obviously, Fëanáro doesn’t have as much control as he thinks, because Maitimo has been sneaking off as much as Findekáno for months. Findekáno doesn’t dare say that aloud. Fëanáro hisses, “Do you really think yourself worthy of him?”

On the very slight off chance that Fëanáro isn’t yet speaking of Maitimo, Findekáno still says nothing—he won’t be the one to condemn them. Then Fëanáro takes a final step closer, his boots stepping right around Findekáno’s, forcing his way into Findekáno’s vision, and Findekáno grits out, “We are worthy of each other.”

Fëanáro growls, “Disrobe.”

Head snapping up, Findekáno squeaks, “What?”

“Prove you are worthy then,” Fëanáro tells him, cold and calculating, though the order is ludicrous. “Show me what my son, my firstborn and heir, is willing to sell his soul for.”

A part of Findekáno almost wants to obey. It would be easy to; Fëanáro speaks with the power of a Vala. Submitting to him would make things so much easier. No more sneaking around. No more seeing that conflicted look in Maitimo’s eyes. He knows what Fëanáro’s consent would mean to his lover. And Fëanáro has some of Maitimo’s beauty, all and more of his power—pleasing Fëanáro would be no hardship, though Findekáno spares him no _love_.

But all of that is overshadowed by the fact that Findekáno’s body has become Maitimo’s alone, and he doesn’t reveal it to any that might simply ask. 

He says a tight, “No,” and half expects Fëanáro to strike him or cut the robes off anyway.

Instead, a smirk twists across Fëanáro’s captivating mouth, and he purrs, “You are brave. My Nelyo has always said that of you. ...Though it seems not brave enough to speak the truth aloud.”

“Would you have me announce it?” Findekáno asks, even knowing it’s another quip that could earn a fight.

Fëanáro merely drawls, “No. You did well to hide it, even if it was foolish to think I would not find out.” Findekáno, until he received tonight’s summons, always thought they’d hid it well. He’d thought the same of his unspoken affections, repressed for years before. But there also always seemed a possibility that Maitimo would report the indiscretion to his father; they seemed to share _everything_. Fëanáro adds, “You will tell no one still, not even my half-brother.” Findekáno would never do so anyway—he doesn’t want to face his father’s disappointment. “You must know that whatever you share can never be public. Whether he ordains to dabble with you in the shadows or not, Nelyafinwë will marry a suitable partner, one that can bear him children and continue the line. And, of course, one that is not his own cousin, _half_ or otherwise.”

Though Findekáno’s heart sinks with every word, he nods. He tries to keep the bitterness from his voice when he admits, “I know that.”

“And you would be his concubine anyway?” Fëanáro asks.

Findekáno firmly corrects, “Partner.”

Fëanáro’s hand moves between them again, now coming to rest on the sash around Findekáno’s waist. He came in ceremonial robes, with no outside armour and tights beneath his robes rather than a tunic and breeches—the sash is what holds it all together. He doesn’t smack his uncle’s hand away. He stands his ground, bracing for Fëanáro to pull it loose.

Fëanáro muses softly, “We still have yet to see if you are worthy of that. ...If you wish to run, you best do so now.”

Findekáno lifts a brow at the challenge. He wouldn’t have thought Fëanáro would leave him that option at all. As if sensing that, Fëanáro drawls idly, “You may; I will not stop you.”

“And if I do, will I ever see Nelyafinwë again?” Findekáno asks, now meeting Fëanáro’s eyes head on, though maintaining pace with such intensity is difficult. 

Fëanáro snorts, “Clearly, you do not require my approval for that; it seems the two of you will find a way together regardless.” It’s true, though Findekáno thinks there might be a chance that if Fëanáro were to truly _ban_ Maitimo from Findekáno, rather than the subtler resentment of his father, Maitimo might obey. Again reading his thoughts, Fëanáro adds, “But if you know my son at all, you will know how greatly he does desire my approval. He would choose it over anything you could offer.”

It’s painful to know how true that is. Findekáno still counters, “I do not imagine he would wish me to be unfaithful, either, even with you.”

“He will be unfaithful to you in the end, no matter what you tell yourself now. He will marry whomever I choose. Yet he would always share with his father, both you and his future bride, for his bond with me is greater than any you could imagine. Far greater, I know, than Ñolofinwë’s shallow relationship with you.”

Findekáno grits his teeth tightly together. His relationship with his own father is anything but shallow, though it never reaches the depravity of Fëanáro’s line. He mulls over the subject before switching to, “Must you see me naked to determine my worth?”

Fëanáro smiles thinly. “Perhaps not, but I wish to see what has tempted Nelyo so. You are handsome, yes, but you kiss like a doll.”

The compliment, especially from one so astoundingly gorgeous as Fëanáro himself, brings a blush to Findekáno’s cheeks, though the insult that follows somewhat subdues him. He thinks for a moment, contemplating his options—he knows, when he forces himself to look at it, that Maitimo would indeed not mind this. If anything, knowing their twisted closeness, Maitimo might even find the idea of Findekáno lying with his father strangely alluring, though Findekáno would never go so far. He weighs out just how much he _would_ do willingly with Fëanáro, and finds it far past the limits of what he knows would be proper. 

When he’s decided, he sucks in a breath, and then he lunges forward, catching Fëanáro’s sharp cheekbones in either hand and dragging Fëanáro against him. He smashes their mouths together, parting his lips, and runs his tongue harshly across Fëanáro’s seam before shoving at the middle. His eyes close, his fingers spreading back into Fëanáro’s hair, thumbs holding his face at the right angle. Findekáno pries his way into his uncle’s mouth and lets his chest arch forward, embracing the intoxicating heat of Fëanáro’s sturdy frame.

Soon grinding them together from head to foot, Findekáno kisses Fëanáro with abandon. He traces the lines of Fëanáro’s teeth, then finds Fëanáro’s tongue and wraps around it, pressing it back, flattening against it, stroking over it, while his lips close halfway and reopen again, working steadily against Fëanáro’s crushed mouth. He keeps Fëanáro full of his tongue and refuses to let go, would force himself right down Fëanáro’s throat if he could, laps and squeezes and even bites at Fëanáro’s lips—he wants to leave _marks_. He kisses Fëanáro the way he would Maitimo, save only for _love_. He does everything he can to leave Fëanáro breathless.

When he finally does pull away, his own breath is ragged, and his body is humming with misplaced arousal. He isn’t as hard as Maitimo could make him, but he’s far harder than he should be for his own uncle. The thought of telling Maitimo of this afterwards, of watching the light in his eyes spark with new interest, adds a certain appeal. Fëanáro says nothing, merely frowns, and so Findekáno drops his hands, withdrawing to stand firm again and await his judgment.

Fëanáro thoughtfully lifts a thumb to Findekáno’s lips, tracing the shape of them. 

Fëanáro’s other hand abruptly jerks out the sash, and his robes fall open straight down the middle. Fëanáro yanks both sleeves down Findekáno’s shoulders, until the silken layers are a puddle about his feet. Findekáno’s tights stay on, though they leave little to the imagination.

Slowly, Fëanáro moves to pace around him. Though Findekáno keeps his gaze fixed forward, he can feel Fëanáro watching him from every angle, observing every little part of his body. He’s reasonably at peace with his own form—he’s lined with muscles from his training, trim and taut, though he knows he bears a few bite and teeth marks from Maitimo’s ardor. The inspection seems to take a small eternity, and Findekáno spends much of it trying not to grow harder from the thrill. The vague fantasy of lying with both Fëanáro and Maitimo together doesn’t help matters, though it would be a purely sexual thing; Fëanáro is difficult and can be unduly cruel. He is secretive and sometimes selfish, except with his sons, and has always rebuffed Findekáno’s father, no matter how hard his family’s tried to bring them together. Maitimo is Findekáno’s _everything_. And it seems he learned most of his prowess from his father; for all of Fëanáro’s off-putting qualities, he’s still a thoroughly enticing creature.

When he finally reaches Findekáno’s front again, Findekáno half expects to be ordered to his knees or all fours. But Fëanáro merely nods and drawls, “Dress, and go see my son. He will be waiting.”

Findekáno blinks, confused, but Fëanáro is already turning away from him. He hesitates before bending down to gather his robes again. He can’t help but wonder, given the sudden change in tone, if this was merely some twisted idea of revenge, in which Fëanáro would debauch Ñolofinwë’s firstborn son. 

As Fëanáro settles back into his armchair by the fire, Findekáno asks, “What is your judgment, then?”

“You may please Nelyafinwë as you will,” Fëanáro casually answers, not even bothering to look around, “...so long as you remember your place.”

Findekáno’s place is by Maitimo’s side. He knows that. But he says nothing as he fastens his robes together again and escorts himself out of Fëanáro’s study, off to report his most interesting evening to his beloved partner.


End file.
